A man died as the
Wombached from the
Subway running through the birth canal,
A train
Never to be born.

When men fight, the more they fight
To handle victory, the more they handle
The admiration of their sons,
And the eager desire of their daughters.

One machine gun, one man
Trading his penis for a gun
Blasting his beliefs
Straight
Towards flesh.

Men polish their guns while
Women make herself up every night;
Men slide bullets into their guns while
Women slip balm into her bodies.

Separated from the bosom, men are
Left in solitudein hunger
Taking the tears of other dead men
And filling their never-expanding stomach,
Pouring it out of their eyesinstead of breaking water.

And it must be an ironic story that
The battlefield was ideal;
                   It was America—
Black, white & yellow all
Spilling blood
For freedom
Erecting their penes heavenward,
Pounding them into
The dark complexion of Islam
In place of women.

Pulled away from the women’s skin, the men
were so tragic
were so lustful
were so free—

Revealing the character of war.

 

*English Translation by Steven B.
* Prize winning poem (Incentive Award in 4th Bungei-shicho Modern Poetry Prize 2008)